


A Day for Grief

by kheelwithit



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, Sinbad no Bouken - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Coping, Gen, Grief, Ready yourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kheelwithit/pseuds/kheelwithit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ja'far's first friend dies and the grief hits hard.  Everyone is suprised and Ja'far's just trying to get through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day for Grief

After it’s done, and the body is cleared away, Ja’far herds everyone back inside; spectacle’s over, life goes on. 

Except for him, but nobody knows that yet. 

Rurumu pieces together the cause before anyone else does; walks straight into his bedroom and claims a neat, ladylike space on his bed, crossing her ankles and patting her lap. The fact that Ja’far is folding laundry is disregarded and when he won’t come, she brings him to her; picks him right up and crushes him into a hug that his structure can barely take.

“The first time is always the hardest. I promise, it gets easier.” And his mother crushes him in a hug that his structure can barely take. It hurts. 

Ja’far’s blinking tears out of his eyes before he knows he’s actively sad.

Sorrow is such an abstract thing that when it forces his mouth open with ragged breathing, Ja’far clutches his hand to his chest, feeling for a physical wound that could make it so hard to get air and her hands curl around his, he intertwines his hand in it because he feels blind, feels new and raw and _hurt,_ would take any anchor. He clutches her hands to his chest and tears spill and they feel so _minor_ compared to the sounds he makes; he sounds like he’s dying, he feels like he is. 

Other people hear. Ja’far can feel them creep in silence to the door, slip inside and watch their stalwart and stern Ja’far bawl like a newborn into his mother’s chest and rock back and forth with the force of it that shakes him. 

Ja’far doesn’t give a damn, hates them all for watching him be weak at the same time and hates them for not anchoring him further because it _still_ feels like too much, he wants to be gone and covered and away from this. 

It’s his only mercy that nobody tries to say that it’ll be okay. 

Rurumu grips his hand back just as hard and waits for Ja’far to exhaust himself.  
It takes time. 

When he can look up, he does. Gathering himself is prioritized and he tries to look like he hasn’t just let everyone see how deep he can be hurt, how much he can feel for something so little. It’s terrifying, but it’s what he’s in and he’s too proud to run away. 

They’re looking at him like they’ve never seen him before, scared like they don’t know where they stand and everything is changed. Kiriku’s close to tears, clutching his father’s hand. Vittel and Ma’ahad look ill. Not even Sinbad is exempt. Nobody except Rurumu seems to understand. 

Ja’far sucks in air and everyone looks a hair’s breadth away from flinching. He blows it out through his nostrils, finds they’re clogged and exhales noisily through his mouth. 

“I’m going to get cleaned up.” 

He lets go of Rurumu’s hand and slides off of her lap gingerly, tries something fierce to look at least not on the verge of death, but doesn’t have it in him to walk straight proud through them, who part like the red sea for him. 

Except for Sinbad. Of course. 

He stands in Ja’far’s way, hand over the doorknob so that he can’t get through. His eyes are always sharp, but this time, almost cutting towards Ja’far like a bomb that could go off at any minute. It pisses him off.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I already am. Move.”

  


Ja’far fiddles with the silverware on his plate during lunch. Sinbad’s eyes are sharp on him from across the luncheon table and Ja’far knows it’s because he said he’s okay.

Sinbad doesn’t enjoy being lied to. Shows it by letting his knife gleam in the sunlight that comes through the hall and slide through an apple like butter. He exacerbates the sickening crunch of his teeth into a slice.

Ja’far stares him back with just eyes that are tired, tired, tired, but still obstinate because he’s seen blades sharper, cut flesh of more than fruit with them and his feelings are his own to express. 

Even if he’s not expressing them at all. Even if they’re not worth expressing. 

Even if that hurts. 

“Would you like to go to the funeral?”  
If anyone could ask that, it’d be his mother. Everyone else is glad, Ja’far can tell, that they didn’t have to be the one to extend the invitation.

“So soon?” His voice is shaky. Nobody but Sinbad is eating now. He’s still continuing his petty behaviour and the knife slices through another part and another and another. They fall on Sinbad’s plate one by one. Ja’far focuses on the plinking sounds and tries to minimize the number of tears that sting his eyes. 

His mother’s voice is soft and gentle from the foot of the table.  
“Custom dictates that anyone is taken care of before decomposition starts, so they’re one with the river again.” 

Ja’far thinks of his friend embalmed in wood, the worms that’ll wiggle in and use him for food, the spiders and the rotting, putrid, familiar scent of festering flesh. He ducks his head so far that the tears fall without streaking down his cheeks.  
He shoves his plate away and he prays that nobody hears the sound of his gag reflex working, of his nails digging into the wood of the table; prays that everything sounds as muffled and underwater to everyone else as it does to him. 

“No, but thank you for your consideration. I hope you can extend my gratitude to the person who granted us the invitation.” 

The apples keep clinking and Ja’far wonders if he got another apple to unfairly punish. Dinner continues and Ja’far sips a glass of water to soothe his throat that’s been made sore from swallowing sporadic bouts of sobbing all afternoon. 

“How are you holding up, Chief?” Vittel’s voice is hushed next to him, his hand on the table twitching to creep closer and hold his for some sort of unillicited comfort. 

Ja’far takes stock of emotions he can’t really parse out; comes up with a result that’s to be expected when he’s blind to them and extends his hand, wibbles it right and left, puts it in his lap. Vittel’s hand jerks away. 

“Eh. I’m fine enough.” 

Nobody has the guts to call him out on that lie when he looks up and the tears start leaking down his cheeks. He pretends they don’t exist. 

Hinahoho’s hand curls on his shoulder and his mother’s eyes are concerned and the whole troupe looks at him like a struggling animal, dying slowly with nobody to help it. 

Ja’far’s stomach turns, he feels the weight, the disappointment, the fear, the anxiety, the obligation, the _weight_ \-- 

“I have to take care of something. Excuse me.” Ja’far shrugs off Hinahoho’s warm palm and leaves his meagre plate, still full, and the table. 

From behind his shoulder, Rurumu asks him if he’ll be okay. 

Ja’far doesn’t answer, even if it’s impolite and she doesn’t deserve it. He’s got to get away. He’s going to be crushed.

With a taste of what it could be to be free, _honestly_ free of everything, coming back to the company feels like he’s become Atlas.

  


In private, Rurumu helps him with chores. 

Pipirika hesitated palpably before handing him his list of chores; to her, the grieving should be left to grieve only. He made a point of snatching it out of her hands with a smile, pretense of being more ready to help than usual in place because to Ja’far, life goes on. 

Rurumu doesn’t believe that grieving stops life’s goings on, but she doesn't believe life stops grieving either. She fits in the medium, slotting herself with certainty beside Ja’far while he completes his chores and lending a helping hand. She rarely speaks, doesn’t do any more than her half, can predict what he needs before he has to say it. 

Ja’far finds that he doesn’t mind it too much, but only because it’s Rurumu. 

“Why’d you choose not to go?”

“I don’t want to see the name on the coffin.” That sets off a new round of crying; quiet sniffles and little gasps and his lungs coughing out airy sobs that he just _lets_ happen. He doesn’t stop scrubbing the floors and Rurumu doesn’t pause beside him. 

It’s good. 

 

In the late afternoon, Ja’far shows up for dinner, musters up a smile for the people he needs to impress and one for Sinbad out of spite. Rurumu smiles for him, when he sits beside her, doesn’t expect one back and Ja’far smiles honestly, watery and weak out of gratitude.

He clears his plate in polite political company even though he doesn’t feel hungry. He’s worked hard today and skipping food all day will be detrimental only. His heart still aches sporadically for his loss, but he can’t afford to die. 

As soon as it’s appropriate, though, after the dinner has moved from the dining room to a lavish sitting parlour to drink, to smoke, to politic in splendor, Ja’far begins the arduous process for leaving, because he can never just _go_.

He makes his excuses and shakes his hands at strange, tall royalty with aged faces and large sticks that Ja’far can feel thrum with power when they pat him on the back. Ja’far feels like his smile might be creeping into a snarl. 

Hinahoho eyes him quietly; his strange eyes slit thinner. Sinbad and Mistoras nudge each other and they survey the room back to back in ways that these gerontocrats are too arrogant to detect. Ma’ahad creeps into the shadows and Vittel’s arms extend a fraction more than what’s natural. Ja’far shoots them all a _look_ ; uneasiness isn’t enough to raise a heckle and fight. 

They need time before he tackles this. Not enough information, no plans, no insight. They can’t do this now. 

_He_ can’t do it now.  
The sight of the door is welcomed and Ja’far is the first gone that night. People snicker about how he’s still young enough to need a bedtime because they think a set of doors is enough to block out Ja’far’s keen hearing. He can hear his crew laughing dishonestly and prays he can count on them because he can’t be counted on tonight. 

Ja’far is tired; he has been all day. If he tries to sleep, though, he knows he’ll be rewarded with nightmares, things he regrets playing over and over again behind his eyelids. This newest thing will certainly feature and Ja’far will have to watch him drop to the ground, dead and twitching weakly with his last before he finally goes still and Ja’far can stop screaming, in his dreams, over his pain and begin screaming over the loss. 

If he sleeps, when the nightmares are finished, he won’t escape the image. The memory will be stained on his sight like a watermark, so that he won’t escape it no matter where he looks.  
It already is. 

Ja’far is weary and the promise of the glowing lights outside of the windows of the palace is considerable, even though Ja’far usually despises noise, crowds and bright lights. 

If you can make an image more concentrated than a watermark, it distracts. 

When his steps take him out the front doors of the palace, there’s a breeze that plays through his hair so far up. It feels like almost any other day and if he could just bring himself to turn to the left, it feels like he’d be there. 

Just like usual.  
Smiling against a pillar, ankles crossed patiently for Ja’far’s company, for an easy day of exploration and mindless, casual chatter. 

Ja’far keeps his gaze towards the city below, the golden glow against his face and his nails dig into his fists. His teeth clench with the effort of not allowing himself. 

It feels, to Ja’far, like a little betrayal to his friend, not to allow himself the pain of noticing his absence, but he knows that the needless pain won’t fix anything, won’t help. 

He forces himself to walk down the steps without it, even if he hates himself a little.

The riverwalk is crowded with people in white; all along the bank they trod at a slow pace that’s infuriating to Ja’far, who lets his legs carry him with purpose. He tries to push past them, figures it a festival because the small procession carries lanterns above them, chants poems that are as grim as this death obsessed society could allow. 

He shoves past them; bumps, pushes and excuses his way through the crowd and he almost shoves someone into dropping something and they snarl at him, whip their head around and shove his slight body backwards and out of the way. 

“Hey! Have some respect for the dead, will you?” A glob of spit lands right next to Ja’far and the crowd parts around him, grumbling about foreigners and how this is why they shouldn’t ever be allowed inside. 

It doesn’t quite click until the last of them have shuffled past and the riverwalk is quiet again, their lanterns swaying minutely as their chants quiet in the distance. The cicadas chirp and locusts and crickets in the reeds and somehow, even though he didn’t intend to, intended quite the opposite with reason and fervor, Ja’far finds himself at the edge of his funeral. 

He picks himself up and is walking with that plodding pace after them before he knows what it means. 

They walk a long ways. Ja’far doesn’t mind, he’s mindless as he trudges behind them and he doesn’t know why, can only follow like if he gets close enough, the empty hole in his stomach, the sharp ache in his chest and his burning eyes will get relief. He’s absently aware that the closer he gets, the more he can see the dark wood coffin and the glinting of a nameplate that he studiously avoids and it makes him hurt more instead of less. 

They stop, eventually and Ja’far behind them, at a distance. And they set down the coffin on a reedy bank behind some buildings on a better side of town and they push him in. The water sluices against it and it bobs in the water up and down and the mourners drop to their knees and chant different songs with different tunes. 

His knees go weak with the grief and he shoves his fist in his mouth, crouches against a wall and wraps himself up around himself and lets himself cry again in the dark where nobody can see him for long, long minutes. 

This time, he wants company, but the one who’s he wants is floating downstream in a casket.  
Isn’t even there. He’s just gone.

Ja’far thinks he must have cried as hard as his friend’s mother, who is covering herself in incense ashes and kneeling, clutching at the catskills and reeds on the bank. 

God, he’s hurting.

  


“Chief.” Ja’far pushes past Vittel and Ma’ahad, still stuck together at the hip even if they’re not part of Sham Lash anymore. 

_“Chief.”_ They follow like puppies, silent steps in the dark of the palace halls at night. Ja’far sighs, ruffles his hair and smacks his cheeks lightly, tries to look alive and leans against the walls because he’s not sure that he can stand without falling asleep on the spot. At least he’ll be too tired to dream.

“Is it really so important? I’m ready for a good sleep.” Ja’far rolls his head to look at them, partially, but mostly because he knows his face is a testament to how little he wants to be disturbed right now. They do hesitate, Vittel’s ankles shuffle together and he chews on his lip and his eyelashes bat several times. Ja’far looks ahead to make it easier for them. 

“We got this for you.” Ma’ahad’s gruff voice blurts out and Vittel shoves something out of his poncho that you can see out of the corner of your eye, but then jerks it back halfway like he can see he’s been too eager to please. 

“If you want to keep it.”  
“We thought you deserved it more than anyone else.” 

Ja’far holds his hand out. Ma’ahad, the cowardly shit, shoves Vittel forward and cool metal lays itself in a small curved line over Ja’far’s palm. 

Ja’far closes his hand slowly and he chews on his words, doesn’t look at it. The feel is enough, close enough that he can already feel his nose and cheeks burning. 

“How did you get your hands on this?”  
“They were too busy attending the funeral to clean out his rooms. We snuck in.” 

There’s a silence where Ja’far makes certain that Vittel and Ma’ahad can’t tell that he’s tracing with his fingers the shape of the golden triangle on the necklace that used to rest right at the top of his sternum. 

“You’ve done me a service I won’t forget.”  
Ja’far turns his back to them and goes to bed and he carries his friend’s necklace with him. 

He’s not lucky enough to sleep dreamlessly, but when he is lucky enough to dream himself in the catskills on the bank with his friend, their feet in the water and Ja’far’s fingers interlaced with his. 

When he wakes up, there’s no sensation of being healed, but it feels a little less scrubbed raw when he looks at the daylight gleaming on this little golden collar. 

He remembers phantom kisses on his cheek from his dream and otherwise and cries that morning anyways, but it’s quiet and only a few tears manage to come out. 

He’s still tired. One day at a time.

  


“Why in god’s name are you so _upset_ , Sinbad?” 

“Why _wouldn’t_ I be! Everyone is here for you, Ja’far. We need you and we love you and you won’t even let us be.”

“How are you here for me, then? How would I accept it?” 

“I don’t know if you’ve _noticed_ , but everyone is meekly at your beck and call! Anything you need, you want, talking or action or whatever, we’re _here_. When you love people, you have to let them be there for you. _Please._ ”

Ja'far has been sighing too much lately. He's contemplating the bricks in the wall, the bricks in society, the mystery at hand and the whispers in the shadowed side alleys. He turns to Sinbad, moves his tired body along the brick wall to stare him down. The sun is behind him; it usually is. He’s golden and fierce and Ja'far is his opposite. 

“If you honestly want to be there for me, solve the mystery, Sinbad.”  
Ja’far’s voice is a cried out, tired, utterly defeated rasp and his eyes are heavy with bags and the grey is flat and desolate. 

“Do your job and solve this mess.”


End file.
